


Cruise Control

by Indybaggins



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s always been a stickler for details, even in his fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruise Control

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus Secret Santa fic for jie_jie. AU. Ryan has a kink for driving. Written to the background of a rainy city and the Occupy movement.

 

Ryan walks quickly through the rain; beeps the remote to unlock his car, a blue, non-descript Toyota, opens the car door and throws some papers in the back before sitting down on the seat. He’s gotten wet, drops lining his face, a faint mist of water covering the top of his hair. His grey suit has darker grey spots over his shoulders where the water landed. He feels beat. It’s Friday evening, five-thirty, and he just finished a week of work. He unbuttons the buttons of his jacket, loosens his tie, and lets his head fall back against the seat, hands coming up to cover his face. God. He should be glad the goddamn week is over, the financial market has taken a severe beating yet again. He isn’t. Truth is, these days he prefers the workdays in his office over the weekends. 

With a sigh, he turns the key in the ignition, and feels the motor rumble to life. The windshield wipers move at the flick of his wrist, the sound familiar as they chase all the drops clinging to the glass. At least this the good part of the day. He has a forty-minute drive to get home, and he takes, needs that time to decompress. He deliberately leaves his seatbelt undone, and steers out of his parking spot, onto the main road. The traffic is busy at this hour, and he stands still for a minute or two before he can drive into the lane he needs. 

Ryan loves to drive. He was sixteen when he got his licence for his family’s old rusty stick-shift truck, but just twelve when he learned how to drive a tractor. Summers spent at his uncle’s farm down in Oregon, endless wheat fields with ores rustling in the wind, ready to be taken down. Nothing but sun and space, peace and quiet, and a giant machine all at his control. It was his favourite thing in the world back then. He was good at it too, good enough at driving in a straight line, manoeuvring the steering wheel larger than his own torso, that soon enough he got left alone to do it. An entire field in an afternoon, sun beating down on the tractors cabin, sides open to the wind, stink of diesel fuel and constant deafening noise of harvesting. After an hour or so the novelty wore of, sure, his ass going numb, arms tired from the force necessary to turn the giant steering wheel, sweating, a slight sunburn. But then, he started fantasising. It didn’t take much at twelve, the fact that he was alone, vantage point high enough to make sure of that, no one around for miles. The heavy shaking rumble of the motor so close underneath his legs. He could lower his shorts over his bony hips and fist his small red cock a couple of times, confused images of breasts and ladies in lingerie passing in his mind’s eye, and he was coming in his hand. 

When he was a bit older he made out in the pick-up a couple of times, even got lucky in the back of a rich friend’s Camaro once, but those were all while standing still. Not even remotely the same thing. 

In his late teens he’d still do it, sometimes. On long, boring drives with endless stretches of road and nothing else to keep him entertained. He would one-handedly open his belt buckle, button, zipper, wiggle his ass a bit so that his jeans slipped lower, and his dick would come springing right out, ready to be teased and rubbed. He was rarely in a hurry, letting the monotone of the road, blaring of the radio and the familiar feel of his own hand on his dick roll together into a languid jerk-off. 

When he started dating Pat there was little need to ever do it like that, and he didn’t for years, but then the kids got born, his career took off, and one evening driving home from work he realised he was hard, in full, rush-hour traffic, and felt alive for the first time in months. 

And until last year he was living with her, two teens and a seven year old, so he couldn’t even jerk off under the shower without someone knocking on the door. So driving became the one time he could even touch himself in peace. Even after the divorce, and the too-quiet, beige apartment he lives in now, he still thinks of this as his highlight of the day. He never bought a car with tinted windows, even though he could have afforded them, Pat never would have gone for it, and besides, he like the idea that someone, technically, could look in and see. He’s a good driver, even one-handed, and he has learned not to close his eyes too long when he comes (one small accident back in Seattle, he drove in a ditch during a particularly good orgasm, had to lie to Pat and tell her he’d fallen asleep). 

So it’s become a habit, of sorts. He doesn’t do it every day, not even close. Sometimes he’ll even go a week without. But today, today he needs it. Traffic is exceptionally slow with the rain, or maybe it’s his own overworked nerves that make every other car seem sluggish, every other driver unnecessary slow and idiotic. The entire city is sealed tight, cars driving bumper to bumper, annoyed, overworked faces behind the windshields, rain that keeps on falling, slicking the roads. He drives by the main road and sees pedestrians walking on the sidewalks going faster than him. A bike that speeds past his car, a flash of a young man and a helmet and he’s gone from his mirror. He’s obviously going to be stuck in the city for a good long while. 

He gets his cell phone out, and calls his home number. Former home number. Pat doesn’t pick up, she’s probably busy with the kids, so he leaves a short message on the machine. They’re with her this weekend anyway. They won’t want to talk. 

His dick is waking up.

He leans over and changes the radio station until he finds one he likes. He turns it up until it drowns out any of the noise from the street. The inside of the car is heating up a bit from his body heat, the windows fogging up while the rain beats down on them. He could turn on the air conditioning, but instead he strips off his suit jacket, throws it in the back, and pushes the button that opens the window. He only opens it about a third of the way, but the gush of cold, wet air flooding in is delicious. He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

Traffic is at a complete stand-still now, so he can use both hands to open up his pants, get comfortable. He’s not hard yet, but he knows he will be, the warm tingle of interest right there, flirting at the edge of his senses. His boxer shorts have a broad elastic waistband that he has to push over his dick, and then lower as it uncomfortably presses on his balls. That leaves him a bit more exposed than he likes to be, underwear and pants hanging midway over his legs (not too low, otherwise the edge of his pants can catch his shoes and mess up his breaking), and shirttails covering the top of his pubes, his dick lying soft and warm between them. His right hand covers his dick, strokes the skin in teasing, exploratory traces, and his left hand is on the steering wheel. 

He doesn’t like to hurry. 

The traffic suddenly moves, and he drives for a hundred yards or so before coming to a complete standstill again, hand never leaving his dick. He presses down a little harder. The radio switches over into a talk show, and he changes the station again, finds a country song. He’s not thinking of an awful lot. He watches porn, sometimes, on his computer or, back in the nineties, on bootlegged VHS. But he has rarely found something he likes. Lately, he returns more and more to that image of himself, sitting on the sun-warmed leather seat of a tractor, nothing but life in front of him. It’d been so easy, back then. Now... 

He admitted to himself years ago that the reason the porn does so little for him is that he’d actually rather watch the gay variety. He’s okay with that, really. 

The traffic light changes and he pushes on the gas but then has to abruptly stop again as the taillights of the truck in front of him show red. Fuck. There has been something of a protest on this crossroad for the last couple days; he has seen the signs, the raggedly dressed youths. Now it seems as if they’re breaking it up for the night, and there are a couple standing right on the edge of the sidewalk, attempting to hitchhike with rain-soaked cardboard signs. He avoids their gaze, and circles his dick with his thumb and index finger to give it a long, slow pull. Hmmm. He’s sure they can see his face through the windshield, but not the rest of him. The windows are still a bit fogged up, and spotted with rain drops. They are all standing in groups of three or four, chatting amongst themselves. 

For some reason his attention gets drawn to one boy standing alone, a little ways from the rest. He’s wearing a gaudy yellow rain parka, the hat up, but Ryan can tell that he’s as young as the others, maybe twenty. He’s holding a sign in his hands for a town some ten miles out of his way. 

The boy suddenly looks up at him with expressive brown eyes, and Ryan nearly gasps. He looks just like... His dick gives a little twitch. Pale skin, reddish lips from the cold. The rain is rolling in little streams over his face. The boy is mentally urging him on to stop, probably. And somewhere in the back of his mind Ryan knows this isn’t, couldn’t be who he thinks it is. But he looks good though. Ryan gives his dick a hard, fast pull. Very good. He already knows he is not going to stop and offer him a ride, not with him looking like that. He doesn’t think he can stand it. 

The boy is still eyeing him, smiling lightly now, perhaps still hopeful. The light is going to change again soon. Ryan’s going to sit all weekend by himself in an empty apartment, and watch sports on his wide-screen TV with a beer in his hand. Then come back to work on Monday. He thinks it’s alright to imagine something better sometimes, a better life. No one could blame him. Or well, Pat would, but she’s not here anymore. She doesn’t matter. 

 

In his mind, Ryan sighs (because it should be somewhat bothersome, at first), pulls up his underwear and pants, and presses his dick in there before zippering and buttoning up. He’s always been a stickler for details, even in his fantasies. While he’s closing the button the light changes, someone toots their horn behind him and he has to hit the gas, cursing. He speeds past the boy, and then stalls out again. He is right in front of the light when he looks in his back mirror, and makes a ‘come here’ sign. The boy comes running up to him and it’s like fate. 

Ryan leans over his passenger chair, and opens the door, letting in a rush of air and cold rain. The boy leans into the car, breathing hard, looks him up and down, cautious apparently, and then says, “You are going to Lacey?” 

Ryan nods, “Yeah, it’s about ten miles out of my way but I can drop you off.” And apparently, that’s enough because he throws his mud-splattered backpack in the back (crumpling Ryan’s three-hundred dollar jacket) steps in and closes the door. 

He leans against the seat, turns to looks at Ryan and eagerly holds out his hand, “I’m Colin.” 

Of course.

Ryan, conscious of where his own right hand had been only a minute earlier and the fact that he is still half-hard shakes his hand briefly. It’s ice cold and damp. “Ryan.” 

And then, as if on cue, the light turns green and he can finally speed past this crossroad. He turns in to another lane, picks up speed, and then they’re on to road Five, good for about half an hour. It’s busy, but the traffic is moving fine. The open window is wheezing now, wind blowing in, and Ryan presses the button to close it. In response Colin struggles out of his soaked yellow parka, and folds in onto his lap. He’s visibly shivering. He must have been out in the rain all day, Ryan thinks worriedly. 

He reaches over to turn up the heat, and Colin looks at him gratefully. “Thank you.” It comes out softly, and he continues to look at Ryan. Ryan can feel his gaze on the side of his face like the blaze of a fire. 

He’s aware that now he has him in the car, he should say something. He likes to talk, first. “So you’re a protester now?” 

Colin shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “No, this was my first time actually.” 

“It wasn’t to your expectations?” Ryan says, picking up on his tone. He tries to remember what he’s seen in the newspapers about these kids. Not a whole lot, really. He mentally adds some dirt beneath Colin’s fingernails. 

Colin takes a breath, hesitates, and then seems to settle on the truth (because he would tell the truth to Ryan). “Three weeks in a tent and the rain and mud and I thought we’d change the world, that it would be exciting. Instead we just sat around and argued a lot. And got high.” 

“You wanted something exciting,” Ryan says, trying to figure out what anyone’s reasons would be to camp out in a city in November, and protest the world. He never would have done it at that age. He was already years at work, steadily dating Pat. Maybe he should have, though. 

“Yeah.” Colin looks at him, “Do you think that’s stupid?” 

Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly the authority on exciting.” 

Colin smiles, eyes glinting with pleasure, “Well, you _were_ touching yourself while driving next to a busy sidewalk.” 

Ryan laughs, out loud, momentarily surprised at the sound of his own voice. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he’s laughed like that, and he had no idea this Colin had it in him to make a crack like that- although he should have known. “Touché,” he says, and steers the car to the middle lane. It’s getting busier. His dick is happy, twitching hopefully at every soft breath Colin takes. 

Because of that thought, Colin notices, and his eyes flicker briefly but hungrily towards Ryan’s crotch. 

Ryan cherishes the look, mentally adds it to his list of favourites, and settles on a random question just to hear more of him, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” Colin says without hesitation. 

Ryan glances over. He seems younger every time. But maybe it’s just himself getting older.

“You were touching yourself before,” Colin says, eyes bright and innocent. Or no, maybe teasing. He would be teasing. “You were touching yourself before,” Colin says, the same devilish glint in his eyes. 

Ryan swallows. He leaves a silence. He was, of course. “How did you know?” 

“I saw you reach down to pull up your pants, and I can smell it.” Colin says. He’s looking at his own hands now, which Ryan doesn’t like, he’d rather see his eyes. He gives his dick a soft squeeze. 

“Well I had a hard day.” Ryan says, as if that explains it. 

Colin nods. “Me too.” And looks out the window. Ryan suddenly realises he can smell him, too. Rain, and coldness, green things, the tang of burning wood, a familiar hint of sweat. It reminds him of his own teens, hiking in Canadian forests, sleeping in wood cabins, open fire. The real Colin. 

It’s getting dark now, and the road is a long stretch of grey. Trees on each side. Rain, still coming down persistently. Ryan can’t help but repeat Colin’s soft voice in his mind, over and over again, let himself linger and delight on every word, the possibilities behind them. He is already getting too close, too excited, so he forces himself to take his hand from his cock and breathe. 

“I’ve never had sex with a man,” he offers haphazardly (‘...but you’, he thinks). 

“Me neither,” Colin says immediately. And Ryan wonders how many times they’ve done this over the years. He’s seen him in supermarkets, swimming pools, outside his street, in the corner of the bedroom he shared with Pat. Colin is always exactly like this, touchingly young. Genuine. Just the way Ryan remembers him. So different from all the middle-aged, cranky men and women he works and dines and plays golf with. 

“Ry, can I blow you?,” Colin asks, quiet and careful, as if he really, really wants to but is trying not to show it.

Ryan isn’t actually sure that he heard him right, oh, he must have heard him wrong, so he says, “Excuse me?” 

“Can I blow you?” Colin repeats, “If you want.” 

Ryan is careful to keep his voice perfectly level. “You don’t have to.” He likes to protest, sometimes. It makes it more real.

He can see from the corner of his eye that Colin’s cheeks are an obvious, dull red. He remembers that from the first time Colin ever offered. He wonders if he’s ashamed. Or maybe just warm. Ryan himself is feeling hot now, sweat tingling sharply under his arms. 

He reaches his arm out, and turns the heat down a bit. Colin glances at him briefly, and puts his hand on Ryan’s upper leg. It feels like burning. 

Ryan signals, and moves the car over to the fastest lane. His heart is beating strangely fast, and his foot feels heavy on the gas. He’s aware he’s speeding. Colin opens Ryan’s pants (or were they already open? He doesn’t remember, and the detail bugs him for a bit), and leans down. The rasp of Colin’s cheek is nice against his upper leg. The smooth tickle of his hair makes him smile. Ryan steers with one hand, puts the other op top of Colin’s head, recalls the feeling of soft, smooth strands.

Colin’s breath is hot and moist against the top of his dick. The tip of Colin’s tongue a hard poke, warm and wet, and then his tongue relaxes in a swipe so delicious Ryan has to tell himself not to close his eyes. He’s driving behind a truck now. The rain has let down a bit, but the huge wheels in front of him leave a spray of rebounding water on the windscreen the wipers can hardly handle. 

Then Colin moans, the sound muffled by his proximity to Ryan’s belly, legs, the fact that his lips are pulled tight around Ryan’s dick, nose pushed into Ryan’s pubes. Ryan shivers anyway. Colin’s hand is on Ryan’s upper thigh, steadying himself while he blows him, making sure he doesn’t bump into the steering wheel, and the other slides down to open his own faded jeans, and palm his dick. To do so Colin has to kind of rotate, pull his knee under himself which puts his ass up higher, and it looks uncomfortable, but Ryan is too distracted by the sight of Colin’s hand digging inside his tighty-whities and pulling out his dick, looking red and hard, and the faint sigh of relief when he strokes it roughly. 

God. He’s aware that they’re still zooming over the freeway at break-neck speeds, and he says to Colin, a little breathless but fondly, “This is dangerous, you know.” 

Colin replies by opening his mouth a bit more, letting warm spit drip down Ryan’s dick, and then sucking it in along with his dick in one movement, the sound obscene, wet lips right there at the base, the tip pushing somewhere in the back of his throat. Ryan curses, closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again, tightening his one-handed grip on the steering wheel. His legs feel tingly, and slow. He wonders if he would be able to brake in time if anything happened. 

Colin allows Ryan’s dick to pop out of his mouth again, and now uses his hand to grasp the base, gives it short pulls while his lips close over the head and suckle in time with his strokes. 

“Colin...” Ryan says warningly. He knows that if Colin keeps this up he is going to come, he can feel the tension curling tight in his spine, his balls drawing in. 

Colin, having heard him, breaks the rhythm suddenly to take all of his cock in again, mouth so slick and swelteringly hot, in and out, and oh, that isn’t helping very much at all, then goes back to the short strokes, his fingers and mouth and lips and tongue, all coordinating to draw as much pleasure from him as they can. Ryan feels himself get to the point of no return, tilting towards coming. He glances over at Colin’s hand that seems to be busy fisting his own dick in blurry strokes and that turns him on even more. He rises higher and higher on this feverish wave of tension, the sight of Colin and the feel, and allows it to take him, tenses his whole body and spurts into Colin’s mouth. 

 

Ryan blacks out briefly, just a fraction of a blissful second, and then he’s aware of what he’s doing again, still driving in the rain on automatic pilot, the windshield wipers groaning, his one hand coated with come. He is breathing hard, and has missed his exit by a couple miles. 

He glances fearfully to the side, and instantly relaxes when he sees Colin scrambling to get up. Colin’s cheek uncomfortably sticks to Ryan’s thigh for a moment, his hair is a mess, lips bright red from sucking and slicked with come and spit. Colin wipes his mouth with the back of hand, and grins matter-of-factly when he buckles himself back in. He hands Ryan a tissue, and they both laugh. 

Ryan continues riding the high while driving home. He microwaves dinner, then sits on his sofa in front of the TV. There are two beers, the one in his hand, half-finished, and then Colin’s condensing on the living room table. There are several games on, but Ryan is more focused on Colin’s breathing, the feeling of their knees touching, the warm rumble of Colin’s laugh. 

When it gets late, Ryan leans into him and covers them both with a blanket. It has stopped raining outside, but Ryan doesn’t notice. 

The next time he looks, the seat next to him is empty.

 

 


End file.
